


Trips

by dannyphantomyeetme



Series: Dream SMP Apocalypse AU [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Bullying, Gen, Medication, No Romance, Not Beta Read, Post-Apocalypse, Prequel, References to Canon, References to Drugs, Robbery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dannyphantomyeetme/pseuds/dannyphantomyeetme
Summary: Wilbur used to babysit Tommy, once upon a time, but that doesn't mean they're friends now. Far from it. They haven't talked since Tommy was thirteen.Then, after the world ends, Wilbur finds Tommy in his kitchen.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream SMP Apocalypse AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151657
Comments: 33
Kudos: 245





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Stand by Stephen King and a little bit by the situation we are currently living in, I've been wanting to write an AU that takes the Dream SMP and puts it in a post-apocalyptic setting (but no zombies. More realistic). I am purposefully making which country this is happening in a bit unclear, so I might take stuff from both America and the UK.
> 
> I don't know if this particular fic is going to be a oneshot or have more chapters yet. This bit with Tommy and Wilbur isn't really the main story I've come up with so much as their background, but I can't decide if I want to actually write out how Wil and Tommy find more of the relationships they'll have in the main story or if I want to immediately move on with a fic where it's already a few months later. We'll see.
> 
> Anyway, couple of notes: I refuse to write romance for MCYT, the only exception being dreamnotfound because they've said they're okay with it. If you came here expecting something problematic, please leave. Most of the relationships in this AU will be found family. Maybe a few jokes here and there, but absolutely nothing serious.

* * *

The world is quiet.

That's all Wilbur really focuses on anymore: how quiet it is. He doesn't think about the corpse of his roommate rotting in the room across the hall from where he sleeps. He doesn't think about how his mom was sick before they lost all ability to contact each other. He just doesn't think about anything, or he tries not to.

He thinks about the quiet, and the empty sky, and wonders if the birds got sick, too, or if maybe they just flew away from the stench of death.

Wilbur hasn't come out of bed in two days.

He doesn't think there's really any point anymore.

Then, on a sunny afternoon four days after the radio stops broadcasting a national warning (or anything at all), he hears a creak coming from downstairs, followed by a crash, and a loud yell.

Wilbur debates staying in bed, letting whatever looter has broken into his house take whatever they want.

"God fuckin'- I swear to God if everybody wasn't dead I would stab a man."

The voice is barely muffled by the thin walls, and Wilbur finds himself sitting up.

The stairs creak when he goes down them, but Tommy doesn't seem alarmed. He's in the kitchen, sifting through Wilbur's cabinets like it's the most normal thing in the world.

He looks a little worse for wear, Wilbur thinks. There's a bruise around his right fore-arm like someone grabbed him, and he's lost weight, making him even more skinny than he already was. His hair's a mess and his shirt is sticking to his skin with sweat.

But it's _little_ _Tommy Simmons_ , and he's _alive_ , and Wilbur could cry right now.

"Wil," Tommy says in greeting. He doesn't look surprised to see Wilbur at all. "You look like shit."

"I-" Wilbur lets out a disbelieving laugh. "What the fuck?"

"It's okay. I've seen better days myself, big man."

"What are you doing here?" Wilbur asks.

It's a valid question. He hasn't spoken to Tommy since the younger was thirteen, unless he counts the few times they've run into each other on the streets. Times when, Wilbur thinks regretfully, he'd made it a point to ignore Tommy, until Tommy stopped approaching him.

It wasn't exactly 'cool' to be friends with the kid you used to babysit.

"I'm out of pop tarts," Tommy says. "And then I remembered you like the same ones as me and I thought 'well, maybe he stocked up on them before shit hit the fan'."

Wilbur laughs again. It's all ridiculous.

"Pop tarts?"

"I can't cook to save my life, and that's  _ with  _ electricity," Tommy says. "Besides, I figure everyone who ate all healthy 'n shit died anyway, so I can do whatever I want."

"Where are your parents?" Wilbur asks.

He feels very tired. He hasn't been around another person since Barat died.

Tommy hesitates, biting his lip, then turns away to open another cabinet.

Wilbur decides not to make him answer the question. It's a dumb question, anyway. He can guess.

"I don't have any pop tarts," he says. "Not those weird strawberry ones, anyway. I didn't actually like them. I just kept them around because it was all you would eat."

"Wilbur Soot, you've just ruined my childhood," Tommy says. He sounds actually shocked, and it takes Wil a moment to realize that he's joking. "Well, guess I'll go then."

"Wait!" Wilbur says, before Tommy can even move. "I- You-"

"What?" Tommy asks, turning to Wilbur.

It strikes Wil then, the way Tommy is hunching his shoulders, the slight daze in his eyes-

Tommy is sick.

"Are you… okay?" Wilbur asks.

"Yeah man," Tommy says. "I mean, it's not The Trips, anyway. It's- I cut myself, and-"

"Show me."

"I mean, it's okay," Tommy says quickly. "It's just a cut. Barely a scratch. It didn't even bleed that much-"

"Show me, Toms," Wilbur repeats.

Tommy sighs, lifting his shirt slightly to reveal his abdomen. There's a long, semi-deep scratch going from his side almost to his belly-button, the skin red and inflamed around it. It looks painful. The bruises coloring his stomach probably don't help.

"What the fuck?" Wilbur asks. "What happened to you?"

"Got chased down by some idiots a couple of days back," Tommy says. He snorts. "Back when we thought this virus would blow over. Feels like a lifetime ago."

"Sit down," Wilbur orders. "I'm gonna get a first aid kit."

Tommy drops his shirt.

"Oh, you don't have to-"

"Sit."

Tommy does as he's told.

It feels good to be fussing over another person. Even if that person won't stop running his mouth.

Tommy's been wandering around town, Wilbur learns. A lot of dogs are dead, but cats are still kicking. Tommy is offended by this: "Figures the least loyal of the pets would survive!"

Tommy doesn't say much of anything about people. Wilbur gathers he hasn't found anyone alive 'til now, either.

"I tried to break into the supermarket," Tommy says. "But throwing a rock at the glass didn't break it at all. It's not as easy as it is in films."

"Yeah, most windows are double glass," Wilbur says. "They don't break so easy."

"I got into my neighbor's house, though. Did you know most people around town just leave their back doors unlocked? 'S how I got in here, too." Tommy pauses. "I broke your lamp."

Wilbur had already noticed the knocked over item when he went to grab the first aid kid.

"It's fine," he says. "It's not like lamps work now, anyways."

He makes Tommy swallow an antibiotic he has from when Barat got in a car crash last year, having done his best to clean the wound and dress it. He's worried about the infection; worried about what it might mean for Tommy if it doesn't get better, but Wilbur isn't a doctor. He's done all he can.

"What about you?" Tommy asks. "How are you?"

"I'm-" The word 'fine' rests on the tip of Wilbur's tongue. He swallows it. "-Alive."

Tommy snorts. "You and me both, big dubs."

"Barat died in his room," Wilbur says. "I haven't gone in there."

"Shit," Tommy says, kindly.

"Have you seen or heard any birds in the last few days?"

"Only dead ones," Tommy says. "I think the virus hit them harder than us."

Wilbur doesn't say anything to that. He thinks about the corpses he saw littering the street the one time he went outside, and wonders how anything can be worse.

"Toms-" Wilbur says. "Tommy. Have you seen anyone alive?" He has to be sure.

"No," Tommy admits. "I- On the internet, before the power died, someone called 'Technoblade' wrote-" The teen hesitates. "Well, obviously some conspiracy theorist on Twitter isn't the most reliable source, but he basically wrote that the government made this virus as a weapon, that it came from a military base in America, that-" Tommy shrugs. "-That it's supposed to kill anyone it comes into contact with."

Wilbur considers this.

It's ridiculous, of course, but so is the thought of everyone he knows dying in a week.

Maybe some scientist created some biochemical weapon, got a couple of awards, and then went and spilled it like an idiot. It isn't impossible.

"Okay," he says slowly. "So where does that leave us. What do we do now?"

Tommy raises his chin.

"I've actually been gathering supplies," he says. "I'm going to go up north, to the PHE centre. I figure if anyone alive is still looking for a cure, they'll be there."

"Who's there left to cure?" Wil asks, rubbing his forehead.

"Well, I dunno," Tommy says. "I reckon' we're still here, other people might be, too. And diseases mutate. I wanna be near whoever's working on a cure if that happens."

"That's- smart," Wilbur admits, somewhat surprised. He remembers Tommy always beating him in board games, always having something to quip back when Wilbur made a joke, but it's easy to forget the kid's got a brain when he won't stop running his mouth most of the time.

He's pretty quiet now, though. He hasn't made a joke in at least five minutes. Wilbur hopes he's not in more pain than he's letting on.

"Thanks," Tommy beams, and some of the worry pressing on Wil's chest eases. "Anyway, I'm supposed to meet a friend up there. Assuming he's still alive. I only know him from the internet, but we promised each other before the power went off-"

Scratch all that. Tommy's an idiot.

"Tommy," Wilbur says with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You can't just go meet someone you only know from the internet."

"Why not?" Tommy asks. "He's not a creep or anything. He's seventeen. And we've known each other a long time."

"He might still just be someone who's lying."

"I don't think so," Tommy says. "He's my best friend. I think I would have figured it out by now if he was really a nonce."

"Tommy-"

"Anyway, what do you care?" Tommy asks. He sounds suddenly bitter, a tone that seems out of character for him. Wilbur's never seen Tommy upset before, other than that time he fell out of a tree. "You're not my babysitter anymore. You don't have to be lookin' after me."

"No," Wilbur agrees. "But-" He thinks for a moment. "If we're the only ones left in town, that puts the mortality rate of this virus at well over 99%," he says slowly. "So I figure those of us who are alive should probably stick together."

Tommy looks at him for a long moment, seemingly trying to find something on his face. Then, he nods.

"Okay, but I'm  _ going  _ up north. You can come with me if you want, but if you stay here I'm not staying with you."

Wilbur sighs.

Tommy is still as stubborn as when he was a kid. Joy.

"Okay," he says. "Then I guess we're going."


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have more pills than any two people could possibly need, but Tommy never asks Wil why he feels the need to grab more.
> 
> Wilbur doesn’t ask why Tommy brings his axe everywhere they go, either. They both have their thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: very poorly researched medication names in here. I'm not even particularly sure if the pills tommy says he needs in this chapter are meant for low blood pressure. i just kinda googled it. I figure this is all fictional, so it doesn't really matter.
> 
> Am I setting up the main fic with this one? Who knows? (I do. The answer is yes.)

"I think we should stop for snacks," Tommy says.

At first, Wilbur doesn't really hear him. The kid has been chatting non-stop for what feels like forever. Wil's started to zone him out. Then Tommy nudges him, and Wilbur listens.

"I think we should stop for snacks," Tommy repeats.

They've been on the road for three days. Wilbur doesn't own a car, but Barat owned a shitty van that he would never let anybody else drive. Wil's sure his roommate would have had a thing or two to say about Wilbur taking it if he were alive… but he's not. It's Wilbur's van, now.

"Snacks?" Wilbur asks.

"No good road trip is complete without snacks, Wil."

"This isn't a road trip," Wilbur says with a shake of his head. "And we have food."

"The stuff you brought is shit," Tommy complains. "Carrots? Who the fuck eats carrots when the world's already ended? I'm out of chocolate."

"You should eat the carrots," Wilbur says. "And the other vegetables, for that matter. Keep your strength up."

"I'm always strong!" Tommy says. "I'm the strongest of men. I'm an alpha male."

"Uh-huh."

"I am!"

They stop for snacks.

Tommy, for whatever reason, has brought an axe along on their trip.

("Why?" Wilbur had asked as they packed.

Tommy had pursed his lips as he thought of an answer.

"You'll think this is childish," he'd said. "But I keep expecting zombies to jump out of shadows."

Wilbur had wanted to laugh at that, but the situation they were in was eerily reminiscent of zombie films. He'd kept his mouth shut.)

He insists on taking it into the gas station with them, though Wilbur doubts he’ll need it for anything… Ever. They’ve yet to run into anything alive. The Trips has killed birds, and dogs, and apparently rabbits, too.

It scares Wil, that a virus that has attacked the world so severely has somehow left them unharmed. What if they’re the only living humans left in the world; a fluke?

Lucky for them, the door of the gas station is stuck halfway open and all it takes to get inside is a little shimmying. Breaking in places still feels weird to Wil, even now.

Inside smells of something sweet and rotting, but it’s more the sight of the unadulterated fucking massacre that greets them that makes Wilbur gag on his tongue before resolving to only breathe through his mouth, slowly.

Tommy isn’t as lucky. He has to rush back outside to empty the contents of his stomach, heaving for air even after he has nothing left to throw up.

Wilbur winces. Poor kid.

A man, or what’s left of him, is slumped over the counter, his hand resting on a rifle.

His throat is swollen to all hell and there’s dried up snot in a puddle underneath his face, along with a whole lot of blood. He looks exactly like every single corpse they’ve seen so far, save for the hole in the back of his head and the brain matter splattered on the wall behind him.

This man was clearly sick, but it wasn’t The Trips that killed him.

And it’s not like even after just a week of whatever this is they haven’t both seen enough death to last them each a lifetime, but Wilbur can’t forget that Tommy is just a child. Sixteen, and this sight he’s been faced with is a completely different ballpark from people dying of a superflu.

Tommy shouldn’t have seen this. He’d just wanted to stop for snacks like any kid would probably want.

(Maybe Wilbur shouldn’t have indulged him.)

“You okay?” Wil asks when Tommy comes back inside.

Tommy looks pale and clammy and Wilbur thinks his hands are shaking. His eyes go a little watery when he glances at the corpse again.

He grins bravely.

“Just fine, big man.”

“If you wanna go-”

“I came here for chocolate. I’m getting my fucking chocolate,” Tommy insists.

It’s not the last time they run into sights Wilbur would rather Tommy didn’t see.

They find corpses of people who’ve killed themselves like the gas station worker, but some people’ve clearly died at the hands of others, too: a woman with no signs of illness who looks like she’s been strangled, a man who’s been stabbed several times.

But the worst thing they find is when one night they turn onto a camping site only to quickly leave again when they realize people in there have been strung up by their necks.

“A mass suicide,” Tommy says shakily as they drive away. “Surely. Just a group of people who didn’t want The Trips to be what took ‘em.”

Wilbur isn’t so sure. Some of those people didn’t look sick at all.

He only nods.

It’s no surprise that when they finally run into a sign of another living person, they’re both a little weary.

 _GONE UP NORTH_ , the graffiti reads. _FOUR OF US ALIVE -DREAM, GEORGE, BAD & SAPNAP _

“Well,” Tommy says. “They’re heading in the same direction as us. Maybe we’ll run into them.”

“I hope not,” Wilbur says.

“Yeah…” Tommy clears his throat, raising his axe. “If we do we’ll just ask them if they’re wrong’uns, and if they are, I’ll have them!”

It takes Wilbur a moment to decide that Tommy probably isn’t serious. _Probably_.

“Be careful swinging that thing around,” Wil says.

He reaches out and ruffles Tommy’s hair, and Tommy ducks away, looking embarrassed but also a little pleased.

They bond.

They used to be very close when Tommy was a kid, and it’s hard not to fall back into that when there’s nobody else around to talk to. Not that Wilbur cares either way. He’s not a teenager anymore and even if he was, there’s nobody around to make fun of him for being friends with Tommy.

Wilbur feels guilty for ignoring Tommy for as long as he did. He’s also not sure that he would act any differently if he could go back.

At night, when they’re in a motel or at a camping site or pulled over at the side of the road, Wilbur dreams of before.

They’re never good dreams. In them, things are normal except for when they’re _not_. He’ll be walking around his home town when suddenly, people start acting sick or deranged or both. Psychosis is not a symptom of The Trips, but in his dreams it is.

Maybe it’s no wonder that in every town they pass, he stops at drug stores and stocks up on medicine. Wilbur takes anything he can find: paracetamol, ibuprofen, but also the stuff that wouldn’t be sold over the counter: paroxetine, nadolol, penicillins. If it comes in any type of easily transportable form, Wilbur takes it with them.

They have more pills than any two people could possibly need, but Tommy never asks Wil why he feels the need to grab more.

Wilbur doesn’t ask why Tommy brings his axe everywhere they go, either. They both have their thing.

“Hey,” Tommy says one morning when they’re getting ready to get on the road for the day. “Did you find any nifedipine anywhere?”

Wilbur shrugs.

“Can I look through your bag?”

“Sure,” Wilbur says. “What do you need it for?”

“I have low blood pressure,” Tommy says. “I’m running out of meds.”

If it’s ever a problem after that, Tommy doesn’t mention it. Still, whenever Wilbur goes to get more pills, he keeps an eye out for nifedipine and if he finds some, he purposefully leaves it where Tommy can see.

He doesn’t know how much time they spend on the road like that. At some point, he loses track of time.


	3. part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MADE IT HERE. NOBODY INSIDE. WE’RE FUCKED - DREAM, GEORGE, SAPNAP & BAD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to post part 3 of this now instead of next week, because spring break is coming up and I know the moment I don't /have/ to do anything I'll just sit and play minecraft like a sack of potatoes.
> 
> Lots of stuff happens in this chapter. Maybe too quickly... But it's the end!
> 
> This chapter isn't beta read. We die like Wilbur Soot: with the possibility of coming back/re-reading it later.

Neither of them had considered that the Public Health Emergency centre might be rather hard to find without a way to look up where it actually is.

Tommy knows the general area they're headed to, but once they make it to the city he has no idea where to go. They spend the first day driving around, stopping to siphon gas once, before Wilbur decides that running around like headless chickens isn't going to get them anywhere.

"We're so close," Tommy complains. "We can't stop now."

"We're not stopping," Wilbur assures him. "I know you want to find your friend. I think it'll just be easier if we find, like, a map first."

"Do they still make those?"

Wilbur snorts, shaking his head at Tommy's antics.

On the second day, they find a map inside the first tourist shop they enter. Wilbur wishes he would’ve thought of this immediately.

“Alright,” he says when they get back in the van. “PHE centre, here we come.”

The centre is a giant building shaped like a circle, with glass walls facing in every direction. Wilbur pulls up to the centre and gets out of the van, but somehow Tommy is faster, already halfway to the doors when Wilbur's feet are just touching the ground.

Wilbur feels a sudden bout of anxiety.

What if Tubbo isn’t here? What if he is here, but he isn’t who Tommy thinks he is?

Over the past few weeks, Tommy has told him a couple of things about Tubbo: the two met online when Tommy was fourteen, and have been best friends ever since. Granted, despite Tommy’s extroverted personality, he didn’t have a whole lot of friends to speak of in the first place, so Tubbo didn’t have a lot of competition in the best friend department.

That being said, while Tommy’s profile picture on Twitter was his own face, Tubbo’s was a drawing and apparently, Tubbo’s always been too shy to facetime.

Tommy has only ever heard his supposed best friend’s voice.

Wilbur doesn’t know how Tommy will react if the person they find isn’t who he thinks. It would probably be worse than not finding anybody at all.

But nothing at all is what they find.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

The door to the centre is locked. There’s another graffiti message sprayed on it, of the kind they’ve been finding all over.

_MADE IT HERE. NOBODY INSIDE. WE’RE FUCKED - DREAM, GEORGE, SAPNAP & BAD _

Tommy presses his face to the glass and looks inside, then pulls away and shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says, sounding defeated. “I don’t think he’s here.”

There are no tears. His shoulders don’t even droop. Wilbur wants to reach out and pull Tommy into a hug, but he freezes halfway through the action and turns away, sighing.

“We should find a place to hole up for a while,” Wil says, walking back to the van. “This was basically the plan, right? We need to figure out what to do next.”

Tommy doesn’t answer, but he follows Will obediently.

The lack of chatter from the younger is unnerving.

They spend the rest of the day roaming around the city, going into stores with unlocked doors to gather supplies.

After a few hours, Tommy seems mostly back to his usual self. In a clothing store, he holds up a trench coat at Wil and makes a face at him.

“You should wear this,” he says. “Look like a right nonce, you will.”

“Piss off,” Wilbur tells him.

He takes the coat, though. It looks warm.

That night, they decide to stay in a mattress store. It’s been at least a week since they’ve actually slept in beds, and Tommy lets himself fall face-first onto one with a loud grunt. Wilbur shakes his head, but he has to admit that nothing beats sleeping on an actual mattress. Sleeping in the van makes his neck hurt.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to a loud clatter.

“Tommy,” he mumbles, barely opening his eyes. “Watch what you’re doing.”

There’s no reply. Wilbur’s ready to go back to sleep when-

“Don’t. Move.”

-something is pressed against the side of his face.

His eyes fly open.

He can barely see the person leaning over him in the dark, but it’s decidedly _not_ Tommy. The man is tall, maybe even taller than Wilbur, and his face is hidden by a white mask.

The thing pressed to Wilbur’s face is the tip of a fucking _sword_ . What kind of maniac uses a _sword_?

“Nobody needs to get hurt, here,” the masked stranger says.

“Wil?” Wilbur hears Tommy ask, but his sight of where Tommy went to sleep is blocked off by three more bodies. “Wil!”

“It’s okay, Tommy,” Wilbur says, glancing up at the stranger. “What do you want?”

“Food,” the masked man says. Wilbur’s beginning to get used to the dark, and he can see now that there’s a smiley-face on the mask, and that the stranger’s hair is hidden by the hood of a green zip-up hoodie. “We found your bag, but that can’t be all there is. Guy like you, lugging around the amount of medicine that you do… You seem like a hoarder.”

“We don’t have any more food,” Wilbur says.

The masked man presses the tip of his sword harder against Wilbur’s face. Wilbur winces.

“It’s in our van!” Tommy shouts. He’s managed to push through the masked man’s followers, but now they’re holding him back. “Please, don’t hurt him.”

The masked man cocks his head to the side.

“Someone coöperative. I like that.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy snaps.

“Tommy?”

The masked man freezes, turning to look back at someone. Wilbur uses the opportunity to scramble up and away from him, eyes on Tommy. If one of those weirdos hurts him- 

It’s a short boy with blonde hair who’s spoken. He looks rather unkempt, like he needs a haircut and for someone to teach him how to tuck his shirt properly. He’s standing in the doorway, with a slightly taller boy with black hair covered by a beanie behind him. The black-haired boy is holding a torch, and his eyes are wide with surprise.

But the blonde boy only looks like he’s about to start crying.

He stumbles forward, passes his companions, and launches himself at Tommy.

Wilbur tenses, ready to react... but Tommy wraps his arms around the boy and then they’re _hugging_ , and _oh_ -

“Tubbo!” Tommy says, his voice sounding thick with emotion. “You’re _alive_!”

It seems so out of character for Tommy, who hadn’t even flinched much when he thought Tubbo was dead, that Wilbur does a double take.

Wilbur’s used to the way Tommy’s eyes glint when he gets in a particularly well-timed quip, and the hyena-like quality of his laughter when he thinks something Wilbur’s said is funny, but Wilbur’s never heard so much _care_ from the younger before.

Not even when Tommy was a child.

Tubbo pulls away from Tommy, holding him at arm’s length to look him up and down before hugging him again.

“You made it! But I thought- You actually made it!”

“I told you I would,” Tommy says. He’s laughing, eyes shining with happiness.

Wilbur feels left out. He can’t help it. For weeks Tommy’s been his only friend, but their friendship could never live up to this.

Then, Tommy looks at him, still smiling.

“Wilbur helped,” he says, somewhat fondly.

Wilbur’s heart clenches.

(He would do anything for this kid.)

Someone clears their throat, and Wilbur’s eyes snap back to the masked man.

He’s lowered the sword. That’s a good sign, right?

“Tubbo,” the masked guy asks. “You know these guys?”

“They’re my friends!” Tubbo says.

Wilbur can’t say he isn’t surprised. He and Tubbo have never met before.

But then he sees the way the masked stranger’s gloved hand clenches and unclenches around his sword, and he mentally thanks Tubbo.

He doesn’t trust the guy. Maybe it’s the way he seems ready to spring at them even when the others have all relaxed. (The ones who were holding Tommy back before are all grinning now, but not in a way that seems menacing. One of them is dressed fully in blue, with giant goggles hiding his eyes and brown hair, the other two standing on each side of him, but Wilbur doesn’t have time to take them in before looking at the masked man again.)

Maybe it’s that stupid fucking smiley mask. 

Or maybe it’s just his general vibe. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who makes compromises.

“I’ve heard you mention Tommy,” the guy with the goggles says, cocking his head to the side. “But not Wilbur.”

“Wilbur’s my brother,” Tommy quickly says.

“I’m Dream,” the masked man says, stepping forward and widening his arms in a sort of theatrical gesture. Wilbur tenses. The bed he was sleeping on is still between them, but he doesn’t think it’ll stop Dream if he wants to attack. He can’t believe he allowed himself to look away from this guy for even a second.

“It seems, my friends,” Dream says, voice filled with mirth. “That you have found the SMP.” He pauses dramatically. “Aren’t you lucky?”

“Extremely,” Tommy says, voice laced with sarcasm. “All it took was getting robbed.”

“Sorry,” says one of the guys who was holding him back earlier. He has black hair, a somewhat goofy grin, and a white bandana and coat. He’s holding a baseball bat with barbed wire wrapped around it like this is fucking _The Walking Dead_. “Your stuff’s yours. Misunderstanding.”

“Sapnap, you can’t just-” Dream shakes his head, sighs, and looks at Wilbur. “He’s right. We’re sorry. We didn’t think you’d be friendly.” There’s something dark about his tone when he continues. “Most people aren’t.”

“Wait a fuckin’ minute!” Tommy exclaims. “Dream? Sapnap? From the- from the messages?”

“Yes,” Dream says. Turning to Tommy. “That’s George,” he points at the guy with the goggles. “And Bad.” He points at the guy standing on George’s right side. Bad is tall, wearing a black hoodie with red motifs. The hood is pulled all the way over his hair and ears and a black bandana covers his mouth.

Most of these guys seem to have a thing about hiding their faces.

“And that’s Alexis, but most of us call him Quackity,” Dream goes on, turning to the guy who entered with Tubbo.

Quackity grins.

“I’m Wilbur,” Wil says, causing Dream to look at him again. “That’s Tommy.”

Dream seems to relax, finally. It makes Wilbur relax, too, but only slightly.

“So,” Dream asks. “The SMP. You guys in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOORAH, THEY'VE FOUND THE SMP!!!
> 
> (btw, Tommy recognised Tubbo by his voice they're just that great friends I will die on this hill)
> 
> I know on the original dream smp, Tommy was there before Tubbo and Wilbur. I chose to change this in this story for the sake of how I'm choosing to tell the story. When the main fic gets posted you'll notice that the story and characters might not be entirely as you know them, but a lot of major plot points will be the same.
> 
> Hope you'll all bear with me while I figure it all out.


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